Page 88 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
Pearl was looking anxiously toward those massive mountains, perhaps feeling as stymied and helpless as Marigold had felt when she’d arrived.
Marigold loved Virgil, but she also loved her sister. The very last thing she wanted to do was hurt either of them.
She was also heart-wrenchingly aware that at no point had Virgil declared feeling anything more than friendship toward her. He might have been willing to marry her when she’d been all he could get, but here was Pearl. She was everything Marigold was: bright and capable, skilled at keeping house and good with children, but kinder, prettier, and she didn’t wear the tarnish of divorce.
Marigold had had relations with him, but she wasn’t pregnant. She still owed him money, but he didn’t owe her a damned thing. If she stepped out of the way, Virgil and Pearl could have a chance at making a good life together.
Why did it have to hurt so much to even think it? She ought to be happy for them.
What would become of her sister if Marigold married Virgil, though? Pearl didn’t deserve to become a spinster aunt. She could easily find a husband of her own, of course. The men here weren’t nearly as choosy as the ones out east, but most were hardscrabble miners offering a hardscrabble life. If Marigold hadn’t ruined Pearl’s chances in Philadelphia, she would be welcoming a baby to a lawyer by now, or a doctor. She would be making their home on a proper street with gas lights and would have everything she needed a short walk away.
If Pearl couldn’t have that, a marshal with a mining company was the next best thing.
Virgil was the husband Pearl had chosen for herself, and he had agreed to marry her. Marigold couldn’t ruin her sister’s futureagain. She had to give him up.
…
Virgil’s mind was still numb with disbelief that Miss Pearl Martin had shown up out of the blue.
“Nothing like a catfight to make a man feel good about himself, am I right, Virgil?” P.J. asked as he came up the stairs to where Virgil was registering the names of the men whose proxy votes he was casting.
Virgil glared him into silence and watched that Ed was recording everything correctly.
They weren’t fighting over him. Were they? It didn’t matter. He’d already chosen Marigold.
Well— He scratched his brow.Damn it.
Since Marigold’s letters assured me you’re a good man and a good father, I was encouraged to pursue the offer of marriage you extended. You haven’t written to retract it.
He hadn’t. It had seemed moot when Marigold had made it sound as though her sister was engaged to someone else. He was embarrassed to have left things open-ended, though. He was a man who cleaned up after himself, so it was his own fault that his private business was being bantered about like an amendment to an amendment. It still annoyed the hell out of him that it was happening.
He kept seeing Marigold looking that sickly green, too.I know those looks. I’ve become notorious.
Pearl seemed as cheerful as promised, and she was definitely as pretty as the portrait she’d sent. He couldn’t deny he’d noticed. Maybe she wasn’t quite so delicate as Marigold had implied, either, since she seemed to have made her way here in a late wagon and fared well enough in Denver for several days alone.
Of course, it sounded as though she had traded on his name with the Dudleys. Virgil couldn’t blame anyone but himself for that. He had a distinct memory of telling Cecil to look after those who said they belonged to him, and he had made an offer to that woman, one that she had accurately pointed out he had failed to revoke.
He’d have to compensate her for his broken promise, at the very least.
“There you are, Virgil. Fourteen.” Ed handed him the ballots. “Cast them in the Yay or Nay cigar boxes as you see fit.”
“Thanks, Ed.” Virgil opened the Nay and dropped them in.
He came outside to find Marigold and Pearl over by his cart. Someone was loading a bedroll and a trunk into it.
“Rufus?” Virgil asked as he recognized the young man.
“Mr. Gardner. Howdy.” Rufus touched his hat and flashed his chipped tooth in a wide grin.
“How’s the finger?” Virgil asked.
“Lost the tip, but the doc says it’ll grow back.” He held up the shortened, bandaged digit. His smile faded. “That was a joke, sir. I know it won’t grow back.”
Virgil must have looked as cheerful as a cornered porcupine, but he’d just noticed that Marigold’s carpetbag was out of the wagon and sitting at herfeet.
“There’s still work in Quail’s Creek if you want it,” Virgil told Rufus. “We’re looking for hands to help build the bunkhouse and furnish it. You’ll have a roof and meals through winter until we start mining again in spring.”
“I’ll think about that, sir. Thank you, but for now I’ll stay in town…” He trailed off and glanced with speculation toward Marigold.
